


A Ballad for the Rats

by robotboy



Series: Finnpoe Week 2020 [5]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Tumblr Prompt, finnpoeweek2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25476127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/pseuds/robotboy
Summary: This is a step up, really: affording a motel is a step up, even if there’s only one bed.And all of this would be fine if Finn weren’t agonisingly, desperately, secretly in love with his lead guitarist.
Relationships: Poe Dameron/Finn
Series: Finnpoe Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838908
Comments: 70
Kudos: 127
Collections: FinnPoe Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

The door sticks when Finn first tries it. He glances at the tarnished metal numbers to check it’s the right room, and jiggles the handle. A firm shove of his shoulder has it creaking open, and he catches Poe wincing at the noise.

‘Ugh,’ Poe snaps the lights on. ‘We really ought to sell out.’

It’s not the worst room they’ve ever stayed in, but it’s not far off either. There’s a sole bed crammed in with two bedside tables and a chair. That’s it.

‘There’s always the van?’ Finn grits his teeth.

‘Chewie snores like a chainsaw,’ Poe reminds him. ‘But, uh, if you don’t wanna share…’

‘No,’ Finn says it too quickly. ‘It’s fine. Be a good story when we’re famous.’

‘Yeah, buddy,’ Poe laughs. ‘That’s the spirit.’

He bravely sets forth, propping his guitar case against the peeling wallpaper. Finn follows, locking the door behind them and sliding the rusty chain into place. He kicks off his shoes and dumps his bag on the bed, while Poe does the same.

Poe has to turn sideways to get into the bathroom, and the fluorescent light strobes with a burst of false flickers before turning on. It casts the bedroom in pallid green.

The sink coughs to life, and a moment later, Poe calls out:

‘We got hot water!’

‘You want first shower?’ Finn asks.

‘Nah, you take it,’ Poe says. ‘You get real stinky jumping around.’

‘Oh, cause you’re so much better,’ Finn shrugs out of his jacket, draping it the rickety chair. He fishes a case of toiletries from his backpack.

There’s a towel on the bed. It’s as thin as a sheet of paper, and it has the sandpapery texture of having been bleached to hell and back, which is probably for the best.

Finn leans next to the bathroom door. Poe’s staring in the pockmarked mirror, rubbing his cheek.

‘Should I shave?’ he asks.

Finn examines the prickly salt-and-pepper shadow Poe’s been growing. Any invitation to stare, he’ll take it.

‘Nah,’ he shrugs. ‘Makes you look rugged.’

Makes him look hot as hell, too. Finn keeps that part to himself.

Poe snorts, eyes meeting Finn’s in the reflection. ‘Maybe I’ll steal some of your groupies.’

‘Because I’m _rolling_ in them right now,’ Finn gestures at the empty room.

‘I’d get jealous,’ Poe teases. He does that, sometimes, and Finn pulls faces like it’s all in good fun.

‘I’d get herpes,’ Finn retorts.

‘And a kid in every city,’ Poe adds.

‘You’re not really selling it’ Finn shuffles past Poe, leaning on the counter to take his socks off. Poe moves back to the bedroom, but Finn leaves the door open so they can talk.

‘All the girls up front were swooning when you sang the bridge of _Overcome,’_ Poe calls out. Finn catches a glimpse of Poe’s jeans being flung across the room.

‘Only cause of your harmonies,’ Finn argues, tugging his shirt over his head. He cranks the shower on, pulling away quickly at the first blast of cold water.

‘Bull- _shit,_ ’ Poe laughs. ‘They don’t even see me.’

‘They all wanna be Rose,’ Finn says.

He finishes undressing and steps into the water. It’s more like a mist, with the weak pressure, but it’s enough to get clean.

‘Or Rey,’ Poe calls.

‘Uh-huh’ Finn squirts soap from his kit and lathers himself quickly. The water might be hot, but there’s no guarantee how long it’ll last. He won’t subject Poe to a cold shower.

They fall into an amicable silence as Finn rinses himself clean. He slaps a rolling rhythm on his thighs, frowning when he realises he’s waiting for accompaniment. He’d spent the last tour rooming with Rey: she was always drumming out a beat on the nearest available surface.

He’s roomed with Poe before: hell, their first tour the four of them mostly slept in a pile on someone’s living room floor, or breathing stale air and getting poked in the kidney by Rose’s amp in the back of the van. Finn and Rose used to sleep top-to-toe on a couch in the studio. Rey can nap standing up, which Finn has always found vaguely spooky, while Poe can curl himself up so small that he fits inside Rey’s bass drum—they’ve tried it. So this is a step up, really: _affording a motel_ is a step up, even if there’s only one bed.

And all of this would be fine if he weren’t agonisingly, desperately, secretly in love with his lead guitarist. Finn shoves his face into the crispy towel and lets out a long, frustrated groan. Then he gets it together and dries himself off before brushing his teeth.

When he pokes his head out of the bathroom, Poe has his notebook open on the bedside table. His brow is furrowed as he writes, humming something.

‘New song?’ Finn asks, rinsing his toothbrush.

Poe startles, fumbling with his pen. The notebook snaps shut.

‘Not yet,’ he shoots grin at Finn, jamming the notebook in his backpack. His eyes skitter over Finn’s naked torso.

‘Shower’s free,’ Finn inclines his head.

Poe takes his hoodie and shirt off in one go, and Finn glances away as he steps out of his briefs. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, only—okay, Poe’s ass is a sight that never gets old. Even in the sallow light from the bare bulb in the ceiling, it’s undeniably magnificent.

The shower starts. Finn changes into a fresh t-shirt and shorts. He grabs his charger and plugs his phone in. As he does, his eyes catch on the corner of Poe’s notebook where it sticks out of the backpack. It’s probably nothing—Poe tends to scribble nonsense for Finn to replace with his own lyrics—but he suddenly itches with curiosity.

Or it’s just an itchy room. He peels back the covers of the bed, running a cautious hand over the sheets for—crumbs, bedbugs, untold horrors—and climbs in. Poe emerges, unshaven as promised.

‘Sorry,’ Finn realises, sitting up. ‘Which side do you want?’

Poe shrugs with his whole body. He brings the towel up to dry his chest, completely unselfconscious. ‘You’re good there.’

‘Okay,’ Finn burrows under the covers. He lays his phone down, trying not to fidget as Poe puts on briefs. He has to snort at Poe’s choice of shirt.

‘You run out of clothes already?’ Finn smirks.

‘Shut up,’ Poe makes a face at him, holding out the t-shirt with their own tour dates on it. ‘I think we’re cool.’

 _‘We’re_ cool,’ Finn points out. ‘Wearing your own merch is _not.’_

‘So don’t snitch on me,’ Poe reaches across the bed to poke Finn’s ribs. Finn smacks him away, chuckling.

‘Lights?’ Poe asks, and Finn gives him a thumbs-up. Poe flicks them off in the bathroom first, then he freezes. He crouches over his backpack, leafing through the notebook and jotting something down. He lays it on the bedside table, and whispers: ‘Okay.’

‘Are you gonna noodle on that guitar?’ Finn mutters.

‘I’m not gonna noodle,’ Poe raises a petulant eyebrow.

‘Rose says you noodle in the night,’ Finn says. ’She made me switch with her to escape your noodles.’

‘It was one time!’ Poe complains. ‘And I wrote _Overcome_ that night.’

‘You can’t use _“I wrote Overcome”_ every time you’re in trouble,’ Finn points at him.

‘I also wrote _Shoot the Moon_ at three in the morning,’ Poe pouts.

‘And are you going to write our next hit at three o’clock tomorrow morning?’ Finn narrows his eyes.

‘Yeah, a rat is gonna whisper it in my ear,’ Poe grumbles. ‘Lights out.’

But the curtains are thin, the streetlights outlining Poe as he clambers into the bed next to Finn. The bedsprings creak, and one of them twangs against Finn’s ribs as Poe settles. He punches the pillow into shape, wriggling closer to Finn. Their knees bump together and Finn opens his up, letting Poe tuck one leg between. He remembers, many living room floors ago, how cold Poe’s feet get.

‘Oof,’ he murmurs, trapping Poe’s ice-block toes under his own. ‘You need socks.’

‘Mm-hmm,’ Poe exhales. His elbow pokes Finn in the shoulder, and Finn huffs, grabbing Poe’s forearm and shoving it under his neck.

The mattress has a noticeable gutter, tilting both of them toward the middle. Finn’s pillow feels empty, so he shuffles nearer to the thick edge. He’s so close that Poe’s breath is warm on his face. He crosses his arms over his chest to keep himself from slipping one around Poe.

The ceiling creaks and groans as someone moves in the room above them. The streetlight that has leaked onto the wall winks as a truck rattles past. Finn counts his breaths, four beats in and four beats out, until the smell of stale cigarettes and cheap laundry powder becomes familiar. He leans a little closer, until he can pick out the scent of Poe’s deodorant, the mint of his toothpaste. There’s a faint clicking as Poe smacks his lips sleepily. Finn smiles, and when his hand lays on the mattress between them, Poe hooks their pinkies together.

It’s a broken bedspring that wakes him. Finn scowls, wriggling himself around the sharp spot in the mattress. It takes a few seconds for him to realise why he has so much room: Poe is sitting up. Finn cracks one eye open, peering at Poe’s hunched shoulders. There’s a blue glow outlining him: his phone is propped between the bedside table and the wall. Finn makes out the silhouette of Poe’s guitar and raises an eyebrow: so much for Poe’s promise not to noodle.

Finn doesn’t move, doesn’t speak: he doesn’t want to, just for now.

The melody is so faint, Finn has to tilt his head to follow it. Poe must barely be playing, a thready hum resonating at the edge of Finn’s hearing.

 _‘And allow me to intrude…’_ Poe murmurs, holding the final syllable. _‘I have given up on what I thought I knew.’_

It’s a mournful tune, slower than their usual songs. Finn can’t imagine it with Rey’s clattering drums and Rose’s bass. He mouths the words, testing the shape of them.

Poe’s voice sounds different when he thinks nobody’s listening. Softer.

 _‘It’s nearly impossible,’_ Poe murmurs. His fingers brush the strings so lightly there’s no sound, just a vibration. _‘Highly improbable…’_

His head tilts as he searches for the words. _‘But not—’_

He pauses, fretboard squeaking as he tries a different chord. His voice lilts into a higher range. ‘ _But not hopeless.’_

The song trails off, and Poe stops to scratch something in his notebook. He pauses, and Finn can see the pen wiggling restlessly between Poe’s fingers.

 _‘Would it scare you away if I—?’_ Poe clicks his tongue in frustration. There’s a scribbling as he strikes something out, and then he puts the pen back on the table.

Poe snorts to himself, and twists to glance at Finn. Finn closes his eyes quickly, keeping still. A few notes ring from the guitar, the barest bones of a minor chord.

 _‘So I guess it doesn’t matter what we missed,’_ Poe croaks over the lowest note. Under the blanket, Finn digs his fingers into the mattress. It’s a beautiful song.

Poe sighs heavily. The mattress groans when he gets up, but Finn keeps feigning sleep as Poe returns the guitar to its case and crawls back under the covers. He lets himself shift into a comfy spot as Poe tries not to jostle him.

Poe’s hand is next to his. One fingertip, callused by guitar strings, trails over Finn’s knuckles. Finn wills his heart to slow down. He tells himself not to move, not to turn his hand over and interlace their fingers.

Finn might have thought it was a dream. He might not have remembered it at all.

Only they’re sitting in the van, their third hour of driving and two left before they reach the next gig. And Finn hums snatches of a melody, something he can’t quite recall. He wouldn’t have thought anything of it, except that Poe’s eyes snap up from his notebook, just for a second, bright with recognition.

‘What’s that?’ Rey asks. ‘It’s pretty.’

‘Don’t know,’ Finn answers honestly. He doesn’t look away from Poe as he says it. ‘Could be our next hit.’

Poe frowns down at his notebook. Finn knows there’s a line somewhere in it, even though he’s never been allowed to see that page.

_Not hopeless._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These aren't original lyrics: the song is [Nearly Impossible](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ekBrwQfofoM) by Face to Face. They also wrote Overcome and Shoot the Moon.


	2. A Chorus for the Parking Lot of Denny's at Three in the Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit by blxcksqvadron:   
>   
> [Hollow,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmgCBKS5ke0) like the other songs, is by Face to Face (allegedly the true lyrics are _feel)._

The walls are thick. Finn doesn’t realise, staring at the expansive ceiling and wriggling slowly from side to side in an attempt to loosen the bedsheet. He wonders if the staff shrink-wrap the beds. Then he wonders if it’s worth raiding the mini-bar. After that, he wonders how many hours are left until dawn.

His fingers twitch and he chews the inside of his cheek. With a hiss, he relents, prying the covers off and clambering over to his suitcase. He pulls a hoodie on, stuffing his hands in the pockets. The box rustles faithfully.

There’s a fancy little matchbook next to the hotel stationery, so he grabs it on his way to the balcony. Outside, there’s enough glow from the skyscrapers that he doesn’t bother with the light switch. He pops the carton open and shakes a cigarette free. Perching it between his lips, he cups his hands and strikes a match. The breeze snatches the first flame away: he turns, resting his hip on the railing, and lights another. This time it catches, the paper flaring and crumpling as he sucks down the first breath of smoke. He shakes the match out, dropping it in the ashtray.

Finn turns, resting his elbows on the railing, and looks out over the city. They played here a couple of years ago, at a club with sticky carpet and warm beer. They’d slept in a motel an hour out of town, because it was cheaper and it shaved some time off the next day’s drive.

He rolls his neck, spreading his shoulders. Just the memory of weeks spent in the van is enough to make his nerves pinch. The second drag soothes them. He taps ash over the edge: this floor is high enough that it will dissolve into the air long before reaching the ground.

A faint and familiar tune reaches his ears. Finn cocks his head, peering at the next balcony. Light spills through the open door, followed by the hesitant crooning Finn knows so well.

For a while, he just listens. A precipitous line of ash grows at the end of his cigarette. Finn has only heard this song in snatches, in secret. He never quite catches the words.

He waits until it’s over before he speaks.

‘Poe?’

The scrape of fingers on frets. Then a voice: ‘Finn? That you?’

‘Balcony next door,’ Finn replies.

Soon enough, Poe Dameron’s head pops out. He’s wearing a flannel over pyjamas, and a smile that quickly turns into a scowl.

 _‘Finn,’_ he glares at the cigarette. ‘They’re gonna fuck up your throat.’

Finn rolls his eyes, taking one more drag. He hollows his cheeks, savouring it, then makes a show of stubbing it out in the ashtray. ‘Happy?’

‘As ever,’ Poe drawls. ‘Did I wake you?’

‘Nah,’ Finn sticks his hands in his pockets. ‘Jet lag.’

‘Me too,’ Poe pinches the bridge of his nose. The streetlights outline a perfect profile of his frown.

‘What were you playing?’ Finn asks.

He turns to face the sprawling city. It’s better than making Poe look him in the eye when he lies.

‘Nothing,’ Poe lies.

‘Okay,’ Finn shakes his head. The smog sits thick around the hangnail moon.

‘Is jet lag supposed make you hungry?’ Poe asks.

‘I’m _starving,’_ Finn admits. ‘Guess it’s dinner time, back home.’

‘Buy you dinner?’ Poe grins.

Finn bites his lip. He should try to sleep.

‘Pick a place,’ Poe squints at the streets below. He points at a corner three blocks away, its flickering neon promising 24/7 coffee. ‘How about them?’

Finn snorts. ‘Alright.’

‘Let me get my per diem,’ Poe promises.

‘And some pants,’ Finn reminds him, heading back into his room.

‘And your phone!’ Poe shouts, slapping the adjoining wall for emphasis.

‘It was _one time,’_ Finn mutters, smiling as he unplugs his phone and hops into jeans and socks. Chewie had found him eventually, one street away from the venue.

There’s a knock on his door within ten seconds.

‘What, you fall asleep?’ comes Poe’s muffled voice.

Finn snorts, opening up to Poe’s innocent face. He brandishes his phone theatrically before putting it in his pocket beside the cigarette carton. Poe waggles banknotes in answer, and they set forth.

The elevator has strips of mirror and unforgivingly bright lights. Finn catches his eyes, puffy with exhaustion and bloodshot from the flight. Poe groans, similarly underwhelmed by his own haggard looks. They walk through the empty lobby and out into the night.

The air is warm, despite the hour. The streets are quiet, and they jaywalk down the empty road because they can.

‘We played around here last year, right?’ Poe asks.

‘Year before,’ Finn reminds him. ‘The club had a pillar in the middle of the stage.’

‘That place?’ Poe laughs at the memory. ‘You almost gave yourself a concussion.’

They cut through a parking lot at the next corner. The smell of stale fries hits them both at once: Poe sighs, and Finn turns his face toward the Denny’s.

Changed your mind?’ Poe asks. ‘At least they’re reliable.’

‘That’s all you can say for it,’ Finn declares. ‘I wanna try the place you saw. At least if it sucks, it’s a story to tell.’

‘Yeah,’ Poe elbows him. _‘Got food poisoning at Denny’s for the fourth time_ isn’t much of a story.’

They press on, past closed shops and an iridescent convenience store. Finn starts looking at the apartment buildings above, searching for silhouettes in the lit windows. He listens for the rhythm of Poe’s gait, matching it instinctively.

Up close, the diner could be an Edward Hopper painting. Poe opens the door for Finn, and they slide into a booth in the corner.

‘Coffee?’ the waitress asks, sliding two menus in front of them.

Finn raises an eyebrow at Poe. ‘Is this gonna be an all-nighter?’

Poe wrinkles his nose before admitting defeat.

‘Yes please,’ he says to the waitress. She fills them up from a pot that’s probably been brewing since before Finn was born. Poe drinks it black, while Finn tightens the lid of the sugar dispenser before pouring in two teaspoons, with a tub of creamer to follow. It tastes like burnt dirt, but sweet burnt dirt.

Poe rests his elbows on the table, scanning the menu. A crease appears in his brow at the hundred options on offer.

‘Guess we’re closer to breakfast now,’ he muses, flipping the menu over. ‘Can I buy you breakfast?’

‘Oh my god, yeah,’ Finn’s stomach growls in harmony. ‘I need waffles.’

 _‘Fuck_ yeah,’ Poe mutters, finger trailing down a list of exponentially increasing heart attacks.

‘The Double Hungry?’ Finn guesses.

Poe grins. ‘You know me.’

‘I do,’ Finn leans back, the vinyl seat groaning. He rests his temple against the window, while Poe slouches to stretch his legs under Finn’s side of the table. The coffee is so sweet it makes Finn’s tongue prickle.

‘How about you?’ Poe fiddles with the cuff of his flannel, rolling the sleeve up. ‘Waffle Supreme?’

‘I’m thinking _Mega_ Waffle Supreme,’ Finn admits, and Poe gives an impressed little _ooh._ Finn kicks him gently, and Poe hooks their ankles together.

The waitress fills their coffees again, and Poe orders. Their conversation slides into Spanish, but Finn’s barely fluent enough to follow small talk. He thanks her in English and starts sweetening his second coffee. Poe rests his elbows on the table, eyes glazing over as he observes the ritual.

‘Sure you can stay awake?’ Finn asks.

‘Mm,’ Poe gives him a lazy smile. ‘This is good.’

Finn holds the sugar threateningly over Poe’s cup. Poe chuckles, taking a sip and narrowing his eyes at Finn over the rim.

There’s a bang and a hiss of the grill as the chef starts cooking. He and the waitress chatter quietly: Finn and Poe are the only patrons, so there’s nothing else to do.

Finn’s first coffee kicks in when he’s halfway through the second. He picks the peeling edge of the laminate until Poe flicks him on the elbow. Both of them startle at the resoundingly bright bell that echoes off the glass, and Finn catches the chef grinning at the sardonic waitress.

She sets their plates down, and Poe does an honest-to-god wiggle in excitement. Finn disentangles some cutlery from two snugly-wrapped napkins, handing a set to Poe. Without needing to ask, Poe cuts his sausage in half and deposits it on Finn’s plate, then goes to town with sriracha on the remains.

Finn slides his knife through the sunny-side eggs, dipping a piece of sausage in the yolk. Then he fills each waffle hole to the brim with syrup. On his first bite, he growls happily.

‘The real stuff?’ Poe guesses.

‘You can _taste_ Quebec,’ Finn claims.

Poe takes the bottle, squeezing it liberally over the murder scene on his plate.

They eat like it’s a contest. The bacon is as salty as the waffles are crunchy; the coffee as bad as the eggs are fresh. A car crawls by the corner, high beams blinding them for a moment. The chef laughs uproariously at the waitress’ joke. Poe get sriracha on his cheek, and it takes three attempts for Finn to wipe it off with his thumb. Poe’s eyes are hooded as Finn licks his thumb clean.

It’s the best breakfast he’s ever eaten. He slows down at the last corner of waffle, chasing the streaks of yolk across his plate.

On the third coffee, Finn skips the sugar but doubles the creamer. The silence changes, too, and Poe is quick to sense it.

‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing,’ Finn repeats Poe’s lie back to him. ‘Just tired.’

’After three coffees?’ Poe gives him a look. ‘No you’re not.’

Finn sighs. Poe will drop it, if Finn digs his heels in. Maybe that would be easier. Once Finn asks, he can’t un-ask it. But it’s better to speak it into existence, than be blindsided later.

‘Are you thinking of going solo?’ he asks.

Shock is written plain across Poe’s face. His lips part, the hint of bunny-teeth appearing as he parses Finn’s question.

‘What?’ he replaces his confusion with a scowl as he catches up. _‘What?_ Why would you think that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Finn gives a tight shrug, looking out the window again.

Poe pushes his plate to one side, sitting forward until Finn can’t avoid his eye.

’No,’ Poe scrunches his face up. ‘Finn, _no._ When have I ever—why the fuck would I wanna leave the band?’

Finn’s jaw clenches. He flicks the lid of the carton in his pocket, and swallows the lump in his throat. It tastes like butter.

‘There’s songs you don’t show us,’ he says.

Poe’s mouth hangs open for a moment, lips catching on words that never get spoken. He shakes his head like he’s clearing it, and when he blinks, his eyes have a sheen to them.

‘They’re not _my_ songs,’ he fumbles through the explanation. ‘I mean, they’re—they’re just not ready.’

‘Not ready,’ Finn drawls.

 _‘Yes,_ not ready,’ Poe’s voice bounces off the glass, and he ducks his head. ‘Or I don’t, I don’t know how to—I can’t hear them in your voice yet.’

‘Whose voice is it, then?’ Finn asks. There’s no venom in it, but Poe flinches anyway.

 _‘Nobody’s,’_ Poe insists. ‘Come on. I’m not gonna burden you with all the shit that falls out of my brain.’

‘Why not?’ Finn asks. ‘Nobody expects them to be perfect. That’s why we work on it as a band.’

‘Because I…’ Poe scrubs the heel of his hand over his face. It’s his turn to look away, his eyes darting over every light in the city. ‘I don’t wanna put words in your mouth.’

‘We do the lyrics together,’ Finn points out. ‘Or I thought we did.’

’Yeah, but sometimes they’re…’ Poe tries to trail off, but Finn sits forward. ‘They’re love songs.’

Finn’s heart stutters over the next beat.

‘Love songs?’ he repeats. ‘You don’t want us to do love songs?’

‘Not if you don’t…’ Poe sighs into his hands. ‘If you don’t feel them. It wouldn’t sound right.’

Finn frowns, trying to steer his way through Poe’s logic. Poe chews on his lip, drumming his fingers on the table.

‘I’m gonna pay up,’ he declares, and Finn draws a heavy breath before nodding. Poe heads to the counter and Finn stacks their plates, a leftover habit from his own day jobs.

Poe holds the door for him again on the way out, and the neon hum fades from earshot before Finn speaks again.

‘So that’s it?’ Finn kicks a scrunched-up bag off the sidewalk. ‘You don’t think I can sing love songs.’

‘Finn, I think you can sing anything. But hearing you sing them—sing about...’

Poe takes a moment to collect himself.

‘These just aren’t _good.’_

Finn stops walking, and Poe stumbles to a halt.

‘If you don’t write us love songs, what’s _Hollow?’_ Finn asks.

Poe frowns. ‘I dunno. It’s a break-up song.’

‘About _your_ break-up,’ Finn reminds him. He’d barely changed Poe’s words for _Hollow,_ except to tweak _I’ll never feel again_ to _fail again._

‘Yeah, but you were there for that,’ Poe shrugs. ‘Ground zero.’

It had been nuclear, at the time, Poe hungover for weeks on Finn’s couch.

‘Who are you falling in love with that I’m not ground zero for?’ Finn asks.

The colour drains from Poe’s face.

‘Can I…’ he wrinkles his nose. ‘Have you still got those cigarettes?’

Finn raises an eyebrow, but he takes the carton and taps them each a cigarette. Poe, the traitor, produces a lighter from his pocket, lighting one and then holding the tips together. He takes the cigarette from his lips and passes it to Finn. It tastes faintly of coffee.

After the first drag, Poe blows a plume of smoke at the sky.

‘They’re abstract,’ he says. ‘The songs. That’s why they suck.’

‘They don’t suck,’ Finn murmurs. He puts the cigarette back in his mouth before he lets anything else out.

‘Sure,’ Poe shakes his head. He sets a meandering pace back to the hotel.

‘How do you know I wouldn’t feel them?’ Finn asks.

‘Well, who are you gonna fall in love with?’ Poe gestures with his cigarette, the cherry after-image scrawling in the air. ‘Who am _I_ gonna fall in love with? We’re on the road all the time.’

They reach the parking lot again, and Finn slows down. This conversation would be cut to pieces by the sharp, clean edges of their hotel.

‘You could bring someone on tour,’ Finn says. His tone keeps it hypothetical.

‘I couldn’t bring someone into this,’ Poe grimaces. ‘It’s… you know. It’s our thing.’

Finn lets the words burn all the way down his throat and torch his lungs. _Our thing._

‘I’d have to choose between a partner and the band, eventually,’ Poe continues. ‘And I’d choose the band. You know that, right?’

Poe turns on the spot, facing Finn. His lashes are slicked into points, eyes gleaming with every faint light around them.

‘Whatever you think,’ Poe blows smoke through his nose. ‘I couldn’t lose this. Lose us. I couldn’t make it alone.’

‘It wouldn’t have to be like that,’ Finn murmurs. Like Poe said: it’s abstract. ‘Rey and Rose are already… whatever they’re doing.’

Poe laughs, as bitter as coffee.

‘That’s, you know,’ he tosses the butt of his cigarette to the ground, grinding his toe into it with prejudice. ‘They’re fine. They keep it casual.’

Finn nods, tapping ash onto the concrete.

‘You know me,’ Poe’s voice quavers, just at the edge, like it’s been scrubbed raw. ‘I fall hard. I ruin things.’

‘Is that what your songs are about?’ Finn flicks his cigarette into the gutter.

Poe wipes his nose with the back of his hand, shooting a wry look at Finn in lieu of an answer.

‘If I crashed,’ Poe rasps. ‘It would burn us all up.’

‘So don’t crash,’ Finn says.

He kisses Poe at three in the morning in a Denny’s parking lot.

Poe whines into his mouth, hands coming up to clutch Finn’s neck. Finn takes hold of Poe’s hips, like he’s wanted to do for years, like they’ve only ever done when they’re drunk. His heart is a jackrabbit, caffeine pounding in his veins and smoke trapped between their lips. Poe tastes of sriracha, and his fingers dig into Finn’s spine, and his teeth sink into Finn’s lip. Finn growls, nose crashing against Poe’s, then they stumble over a grating and are left holding each other, breathless, glowing.

‘Okay,’ Poe doesn’t stop staring at Finn’s mouth. His tongue darts out to chase an echo of the kiss. ‘Yeah, okay.’

Finn takes Poe’s hand, threading their fingers together. He stills, like something is going to explode, until Poe squeezes his palm.

Poe keeps holding Finn’s hand, and the two blocks they walked an hour ago are a whole new territory, a sweeping uncharted land, every step a discovery. Finn’s thumb rubs over Poe’s knuckles, mapping each crease and hair. His feet don’t touch the ground

But Poe’s fingers slip free when they reach the lobby, nothing but a quick hook of his pinkie and it’s like they never touched. Finn flexes his hand, trying to trap the tingling memory on his palm, as he follows Poe to the elevator. His heel jiggles in his boot until it pings, and Poe presses the button for their floor.

He’s on Finn the moment the doors close. This kiss isn’t like the first: it’s hungry, messy, teeth and tongue dragging over Finn’s face, Poe snarling for more in the seconds they have before they reach the top.

The doors whisper open and Poe runs a hand through his hair like he can fix it. His lips are red and swollen, and there’s a hitch in his gait as they make their way up the hall. Finn shoves his hands in his pockets to keep from manhandling Poe. He fumbles around the carton and his phone, concentrating on those instead of how tight his jeans are getting, and freezes.

‘I didn’t bring my room key,’ he realises.

Poe whips around, his eyes narrowed.

‘This!’ he holds up a finger. ‘This is why we need a goddamn tracking beacon for you.’

Finn pulls a face at him. ‘I could go back down…’

Poe tilts his hip, leaning against the wall in a caricature of an invitation. ‘You _could.’_

‘Or…’ Finn flutters his lashes, and Poe, to his credit, flushes. ‘I could stay in your room.’

‘You could do that.’

Poe closes the space between them, his fingers hooking into the waistband of Finn’s jeans. Finn leans in for a short kiss, and Poe nuzzles him.

‘I gotta warn you…’ Poe murmurs.

‘You fall hard?’ Finn smirks.

‘You know that already,’ Poe kisses the corner of his mouth. ‘But I might noodle.’

Finn indulges, for a moment or three, in the image of Poe naked with his guitar. His hips roll forward, pressing Poe into the door. Poe gasps.

‘You could play me one of your love songs,’ Finn suggests.

‘Maybe,’ Poe smiles. ‘If you give me the words.’

**Author's Note:**

> [I have lots more finnpoe fic,](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Brelationship_ids%5D%5B%5D=6452486&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=robotboy) and lots more Star Wars on my works page <3


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